Throwback & Backlash: Love, Lust & Murder

By Kirk Alex

LIKE A BLAST FROM A DOUBLE-    BARRELED SHOTGUN,

TWO HARD NOIR LA NOVELS           
IN ONE BLOOD–STAINED VOLUME:         
 
         THROWBACK & BACKLASH
          Love, Lust & Murder Series

Ménage as pressure cooker about to boil over: when Fred falls for married Marge, whose husband Frank is a bounty hunter . . . and Fred's boss.

Marge can't leave her husband, not if she wants his life insurance money, and her lover Fred doesn't see himself as a murderer.  

Her scheme to make Frank's death look job-related seems like the perfect plan. But murder is best served neat, and lust and greed make for a potent cocktail that's
liable to combust.

Soon the concoction begins to spiral out
of control, when Fred proves he'll do anything for love and money.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tucumcari Press
• Release date: Sep 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9780939122530

Kirk Alex

Instead of boring you with a bunch of dull background info, how about if I mention a few films/singers/musicians and books/authors I have enjoyed over the years.Am an Elvis Presley fan from way back. Always liked James Brown, Motown, Carmen McRae, Eva Cassidy, Meat Loaf, Booker T. & the MGs, CCR. Doors are also a favorite.Some novels that rate high on my list: A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole; Hunger by Knut Hamsun; Street Players by Donald Goines (a street noir masterpiece, a work of art, & other novels by the late awesome Goines); If He Hollers Let Him Go by the incredible Chester Himes. (Note: Himes at his best was as good as Hemingway at his best. But of course, due to racism in the great US of A, he was given short-shrift. Had to move to France to be treated with respect. Kind of sad.Am white by the way, but injustice is injustice & I feel a need to point it out. There were so many geniuses of color who were mistreated and taken advantage of. Breaks your effing heart. I have done what I have been able to support talent (no matter what the artists skin color was/is) over the years by purchasing records & books by talented folks, be they white/black/Hispanic/Asian, whatever. Like I said: Talent is talent, is the way I have always felt. The arts (in all their forms) keep us as humans civilized, hopefully). Anyway, I need to get off the soap box.Most of the novels by Mark SaFranko (like Lounge Lizard and Hating Olivia; his God Bless America is one of the best memoirs I have ever read, up there with Ham on Rye by Buk);The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway; A Farewell to Arms also by Ernie; Mooch by Dan Fante (& other novels of his); Post Office by Charles Bukowski; The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath; the great plays of Eugene O., like Iceman Cometh, Long Days––this system has a problem with the apostrophe, so will leave it out––Journey Into Night, Touch of the Poet; Journey to the End of the Night by Ferdinand Celine (not to be confused by the Eugene O. play); Postman Only Rings Twice by James M. Cain; the factory crime novels of Derek Raymond (superior to the overrated Raymond Chandler & his tiresome similes & metaphors any day of the week; Jack Ketchum; Edgar Allan Poe; The Reader by Bernhard Schlink; Nobody/s Angel by Jack Clark; The Professor and the Madman by Simon Winchester, et al.Filmmakers: Akira Kurosawa (Ihiru; Yojimbo); John Ford (almost anything by him); horror flicks: Maniac by William Lustig and Joe Spinnell; original Night of the Living Dead; original Texas Chainsaw Massacre; original When a Stranger Calls; The 400 Blows by Francois T.; the thrillers of Claude Chabrol; A Man Escaped by Bresson; the Japanese Zatoichi films;Tokyo Story by Ozu . . . and many other books, films and jazz musicians like the amazing tenor sax player Gene Ammons; Sonny Rollins, Chet Baker, Jack Sheldon, Stan Getz, Paul Desmond; singers like the incomparable Sarah Vaughan, Shirley Horn, Dion Warwick; Al Green, Elmore James, Lightnin Hopkins . . . to give you some idea.However, these days though, tv does not exist at all for me, nor do I care for most movies, in that I would much rather pick up a well-written book. I get more of a kick from reading than I do watching some actor pretend to be something he is not.Having said that, I confess that as a young man I did my share of wasting time watching the idiot box and spent my share of money going to the flicks. But those days are long gone, in that there is no interest in movies (be they cranked out by the Hollywood machine, or elsewhere).Final conclusion when it comes to celluloid? Movies are nothing more than a big waste of time (no matter who makes them). Reading feeds the brain, while movies puts the brain to sleep. There it is.

Book preview

Ménage as Pressure Cooker.

About to boil over. . .

It started innocently enough with a dead car battery and a mean Pyrenees mix. But before the day was done, Fred Reed, a Midwestern boy with a troubled past looking for a fresh start in California, was in love. The only thing standing in his way is Margie’s husband, Frank, a bounty hunter, who Fred happens to work for. She can’t leave him, and Fred doesn’t see himself as a murderer, although the bruises on Margie are becoming harder to ignore.

Margie’s scheme to make Frank’s death look like an accident seems like the perfect plan. But murder is best served neat, and lust and greed make for a potent cocktail that’s liable to combust. Now Fred’s caught up in a dangerous scheme that’s quickly spiraling out of control, as he proves he’ll do anything for love and money.

Fast-paced and full of twists and turns, Kirk Alex’s first book in the crime thriller series, Love, Lust and Murder, will keep readers turning the pages long past midnight.

title

Copyright © 2018 Throwback: Love, Lust & Murder — Book One by Kirk Alex

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this novel, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized editions, and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials. For information, address Tucumcari Press, PO Box 40998, Tucson, Arizona 85717-0998

Throwback: Love, Lust & Murder — Book One is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-0-939122-54-7 (6x9 pbk)

ISBN: 978-0-939122-55-4 (ePUB)

Dedicated to the late, great Dan Fante for creating the unforgettable Bruno Dante series of novels, as well as the exceptional murder mystery entitled Point Doom. RIP.

I zigged when I should have zagged.

—Ernest Hemingway

Chapter 1

Sure. Peeps kill for love and money. Nothing unusual there. Pick up a paper, any paper—any day of the week—and there it is: Hubby walks in on wife with her lover & blows them away. Turn the tv on & it’s: Hubs shoves his Significant Other down a precipice to gain full access to her Benjamins.

Then you have the type of situation fueled by some of this, and some of that, as in: Jilted wife and one-time socialite breaks into her former spouse’s home in the middle of the night with a loaded .38, strolls into the master bedroom, where the ex and his new bride are sound asleep, and sprays them with lead.

Yep. At times can be a mix of both, with a bit of nitro called lust tossed into the cocktail to make it entirely combustible. In this particular case that’s exactly what it was: combo of all three. Love, Lust & Greed. Triptych of chaos. Flammable and deadly. About the only thing ‘unusual’ about it, and makes you shake your head, is what set the nightmarish chain of events in motion. A dead car battery. An effing DB.

What caused the DB? Loose nut under the brake pedal in this used ten-year-old Toyota that belonged to the woman I was shacked with at the time. The bitch of it was it didn’t matter if you turned the lights off, because the brake lights would stay on. What you had to do was jiggle the goddamn brake pedal with your foot a bit and make sure all the lights were off when you cut the engine. If you didn’t, you were in deep shit—because that was all it took to drain the effing battery.

But hey, who can remember to do that every time? Especially after pulling a long-ass night delivering pizza for your measly bread and butter. I mean that was the last thing on my mind, the brake pedal and to check and make sure ALL the lights were off.

It was 2 a.m. by the time I got home. And it wasn’t until three and a half hours later, when I was awakened by Monica trying to start the car, did it occur to me what I may have done.

I was having the usual money issues. My meager take-home consisted of tips mostly and was never steady like hers. She never said anything about it. If I was short on my end, Monica would come through without a word. She was always great. Still, it was something that nagged at me.

I'd been trying to land a job driving a truck for the studios (as I'd heard how well it paid), or maybe I could do stunt work, it didn't matter to me—as long as the money was there. But it was hard. The unions wouldn't let you in. It came down to nepotism, who you knew. I'd been trying to break in for two years, ever since coming out to LA from the Midwest. It wasn't until I'd met Monica at a party I'd crashed in the Hollywood Hills eight months before and talked to her about it that I even thought I had a chance. She was a secretary at one of the production companies in Burbank. As far as she was concerned, persistence was key, and not to get discouraged. All I was after was a fresh start, a chance to get somewhere. I had a history I wasn’t proud of, runs-ins with the man, in and out of jail. I needed to get away from the craziness of it, because I knew it would lead to no good. You know?—a dead-fucking-end. And so that’s how I wound up in the Valley, spinning my wheels.

I didn’t give a shit for movies or actors; I wasn’t out for fame or to make a million bucks, just a regular job that paid a decent wage. That’s what I saw the truck driving gig as: a way to put a few bucks in the bank, buy a decent used car, maybe a trailer to live in, maybe even a house of my own. Give myself a shot at the ‘American Dream.’ Was it pie-in-the-sky? Were the odds against it? That’s yes—to both. Millions of peeps were in the same boat. But when you’re young, and I was young at the time, you do your best to cling to a bit of hope, feel like it might be worth having something to strive for, as in a better life, a way to improve your lot.

So now, with the car not wanting to start (and Monica possibly missing her early a.m. aerobics class) and all of it being my fault, it made me unhappy.

I got the bathrobe on and staggered into the living room. Chambray, her Pyrenees mix, barked as the front door opened. She hadn't expected it to be Monica. Chambray can be a mean mother who barks only at strangers and what she perceives to be sounds made by strangers. She hadn't been fully awake or something, so she barked. Once she saw that it was Monica, she settled down.

It won't start.

It's the battery.

I was the desperate one and no doubt sounded like it. Monica had a way of remaining undaunted when life's many little nerve-racking problems would crop up. I liked that about her.

Damn. I forgot to check the brake lights when I came in. What probably caused it.

I felt bad about it. Couldn’t help being pissed. I had Triple A, but unless you were stranded on some deserted road, late at night, you didn't call Triple-A—not unless you wanted your membership to go up. So when she suggested the auto club, I nixed it.

What are we going to do, honey? I'll be late for work.

I kept cursing and shaking my head. It never solved much. That's the way I was back then. Monica tried to calm me down. I cursed.

Can you call one of your friends to give you a jump?

Not at this hour. Besides, there's no room for another car in our yard, let alone a pickup truck or a van. That's what the guys I knew drove, of the few people that I knew in LA.

We lived in a modest, one-bedroom California bungalow in the back. There was a two-car garage to the left of our bungalow, a stall for the guy who owned the small photography shop in the front, and a stall for us. It was too early for the shop to be open.

Lambert Miles owned the real estate both properties were on, and came in to work when he felt like it, which was usually around ten, other times he didn't go in at all. Ten o'clock would have been way too late, on the outside chance he showed, so that was out. Opening, and then closing the creaky old garage door, if we wanted to use our stall, seemed like more trouble than it was worth, and so, as a matter of convenience, we parked the bucket in the small yard that separated the shop in front and the house we lived in in the back. There certainly would not have been enough room for a vehicle to pull up next to ours to jump it. Also, some of these guys I was acquainted with lived in their junkers, no access to a phone. Like yours truly used to.

I was too upset by then to think of pushing our car into the garage, therefore creating enough room for another short to get in there and give us a jump, but all this would have taken time, and time was something Monica was running out of. She would be late.

While I paced, bitching and grumbling, she got on the phone and dialed a co-worker's number.

I hope Sally hasn't left.

A moment later, and her friend Sally answered at the other end.

Thank God. Sally, it's Monica. Can I get a ride? My car won't start. Thanks, Sally.

We were both relieved. Sally lived in Studio City and would be able to swing by our place easily enough and drop my girlfriend at her job in Burbank. I still looked pretty miserable.

Oh honey, don't worry. It'll be all right.

I know. I'm just angry with myself for blowing your aerobics class.

She gave me a kiss. As long as I get to work I'll be all right.

Who could ask for more? She was a gem.

I'm sorry.

Honey, you worry too much.

I'll be okay.

We hugged, kissed again, and she went outside to wait for Sally.

Chapter 2

My weary body was sending desperate signals that I needed to return to bed and get caught up on sleep. Instead, I got into a pair of jeans, my old army shirt, and went out to the car and adjusted the nut under the brake pedal. Two minutes later and it was taken care of. The lights went off. I tried starting the car. The juice that remained in the battery was not enough to do it.

I staggered back to the house for the shuteye I needed and didn't get up again until about 2 in the afternoon. That's what a night job did to you—ruined you and your days, too.

The solution to the car issue was a simple one really: the battery needed recharging. I popped open the hood, checked the brake fluid—it was low. Refilled it. Checked the oil. Oil was good. Checked the water in the battery. There was no water in the battery.

Nothing.

We took such good care of that car. Battery probably hadn't been tended to in months. Yes, we took great care when it came to that car.

I poured water in, two full Dr Pepper bottles, let it sit a while, and tried again. No go.

So I removed the battery, put Chambray on a leash. During the day I was a babysitter: Chambray couldn't be left alone; she was neurotic that way. Even though we had reinforced the bit of backyard fence between the house and the garage, she always got out—and when she got out she attacked people. And if we left her inside the house she would tear up the place. The only solution was to always have one of us with her.

I didn't have the heart to leave her in the car. Chambray was an all white, half Great Pyrenees Mountain Dog/ half something else, who had sunk her teeth into three people, that I knew of. She didn't usually go around biting people at random; she just didn't like strangers to approach either Monica or me. In the 8 months I'd known Monica this dog had come to accept me as part of the family, and I had to admit I felt the same way about her. But yes, it hadn't been easy going in the beginning for us. She'd attempted to lunge at me a couple of times, until I finally had to stare her down and make sure she understood: If I got bit, there would be consequences.

Yeah, I knew she had her problems, but she was just a dog, after all. Still, if we wanted to keep her we had to be extra cautious. Living in this area of the Valley in particular, we wanted to keep her. Too many burglaries committed by hard up druggies, too many assaults on women, and other crimes. With my working the graveyard shift and Monica all alone at night (back then she preferred not to have guns around), a dog like Chambray was the only reasonable solution. She'd brought her down from Phoenix when she moved to LA six years before we met.

I swung the car battery up on my shoulder, wound the end of the leash tightly round my right wrist, and walked the two or three blocks to the gas station.

Chapter 3

Yes, we charge batteries. The gas station attendant was from the Middle-East and spoke with a heavy accent. Four dollars.

I left the battery there and let him know I would return in about an hour. Chambray and I crossed the street, headed north. Reached the neighborhood park. Park was huge. Had a baseball field, tennis and basketball courts, monkey bars and olympic rings. I decided I wanted to do some pull-ups for a while to kill the time. It was a warm, sunny day and I wanted to enjoy what was left of it before returning to the pizza joint later that evening where I worked.

The dog and I got on the gravel path and took it toward the monkey bars. The only thing I did not like about the park, although a city facility, they had like a daycare center for young kids housed in one of the buildings and there were always kids around, playing in the sandbox, throwing rocks and empty pop bottles and cans around. I didn't like it because it would have been nearly impossible to so much as do a single pull-up without fearing some kid might go up to the dog and start petting her. It did not matter to the Pyrenees how young or how old the individual was, if the person approached her and Chambray did not know him or her, she would bite. Period. This was the great fear. What had made the dog this way? I didn't know, and neither did Monica, and she'd raised her from a fairly young age.

Fact was, Chambray didn't cotton to strangers. Gender made no difference or who the person was. Without warning, without anything, other than a low growl maybe, other times nothing: no growl, nada—if they attempted to get near her, or me, she'd bite.

So I was worried, especially when this five or six-year-old kid refused to keep his distance, even after countless warnings. He was determined to play with ‘the pretty dog.’ I was doing chin-ups on the monkey bars and had Chambray tied to a post when this kid kept getting closer and closer.

I'm telling you she bites. Stay away.

Why?

She bites, that's why.

I thought I better get down and walk over. I’d had my sunglasses on and the kid wanted to know if I was a movie star.

No, I'm not. Don't go near the dog.

Take your glasses off.

Stay away from the dog.

A blond-haired girl, a little older than the boy, came by with a handful of sand and flung it at him. The kid picked up a brick and was about to retaliate. I stopped him.

What's your dog’s name? the boy wanted to know, and got real close.

Chambray. Now, will you stay away?

I want to pet her.

No, you don’t.

The kid insisted.

I couldn't reason with him. Chambray growled. I held her down. The kid got real close and put his hand on top of the dog's head.

Get away. She bites.

The kid shook his head, and continued to pet the dog. See, she won't bite me.

I kept my hand by Chambray's jaw. The girl had a little more sense than the boy: she didn't get too close.

My father says if a dog bites you, you can sue.

Sure you can sue. That's why I say stay away.

Chambray continued with the warning growl. I held her down.

It's all right, Chambray. Calm down.

The kid continued to pet her. He had both hands on Chambray.

"Please don't do that. I'm telling you she bites."

The kid smiled and shook his head, and briefly took his hands away from the dog. Because Chambray had stopped growling, I had allowed myself to relax. I knew I shouldn't have, but I did. That was when the Pyrenees snapped at him. It had happened so lightning quick I hadn’t even been certain I saw it take place. The kid jumped back in shock. Not a sound came out of him for about two or three seconds, then he let out a wail. He screamed at the top of his lungs. I tied the dog’s leash to the chain link fence in back of us. Went over to the boy.

She didn't bite you, did she?

I wasn't sure. It had happened too damned fast. The kid continued to scream. It was then I noticed the blood on the kid's neck. Not a lot of it. A dot. In fact, it was barely visible. One quarter of an inch in diameter. I wiped it with my hand and the kid got louder.

I'M BLEEDING! I'M BLEEDING!

I was all nerves, but did my best to maintain. Did you fall?

Kid shook his head. SHE BIT ME! SHE BITTT ME!

What happened? The dog didn't bite you. You must have tripped or something.

The kid kept shaking his head and was screaming. I'M BLEEDING! I'M BLEEDING!

More blood appeared. I glanced at the teenagers shooting hoops about sixty/seventy feet from where we were. No one paid any attention to us. They were immersed in their game. I walked back to the fence, untied the leash, and walked as fast as I knew how (without running) in a westerly direction. I could feel my heart pounding. My throat had gone dry on me.

Goddamn it, I knew it was the wrong thing to do, but we couldn't afford another medical bill. The last one had cost eighty dollars. I couldn't afford to buy a pair of pants. We didn't have money in the budget for doctor bills. Worse yet, I was worried the dog might get taken away. I knew in time the boy would be okay, after the initial shock wore off. Chambray didn't have anything. She was clean. The boy was going to be all right.

We crossed the street, and just before ducking behind a building on the corner there I turned my head and could see one of the women who worked at the daycare, with the young vic and his sister in tow, questioning the basketball players.

We made it to the gas station. I paid the gas station attendant four bucks for the charge. Asked him to step back so that I could pick up the battery.

She bites.

She bite?

I nodded. She bites.

I wished people would take my word for it.

He stepped back. I think this kind of dog do not bite.

They do.

He gave me room.

I lifted the battery, thanked him, and left.

Chapter 4

By the time we got back to the house I was sweating, I was sweating like someone who had just participated in a twenty-six-mile marathon, and it wasn't entirely from hauling the heavy car battery, either. I could still hear the kid's voice screaming in my head. I'M BLEEDING! I'M BLEEEEEDIIIINNNNNG!

The kid was going to be fine. I knew it. But I couldn't get his voice out of my head. What I had done was wrong. No one had to tell me that. Not going back seemed like the best solution. No one had to tell me I was wrong in that respect, either. But, dammit, I couldn't go back. I didn't want us to have to deal with Five-0 again, or the kid's parents. I didn't want to give Monica more problems to worry about. Little, every day things she could cope with better than I. But everyone has their limit. I didn't want to see Monica fall into another depression. I wanted to spare her that. Because the dog was actually hers, whatever she did, she felt responsible. She would have felt responsible for it this time, too. The last time Chambray bit an old woman Monica was in a funk for two weeks straight. She was too good a person to deserve it. I wouldn't tell her, no matter what.

I left the battery on the front porch, chained Chambray to the post in the yard, and went looking for the nearest bar. I needed a beer.

Chapter 5

Bunch of keys dangled from a carabiner on his belt in the right hip area. There was a chrome chain that was attached to the keyring at that end and was attached to a loop near the silver belt buckle at the other. There was a second chrome chain with thicker links that went from his hip pocket and the billfold in it to the same loop in the front of his jeans.

I recognized the sweat-stained Stetson wearing macho blowhard from his numerous appearances on news programs and tv talk shows throughout the Midwest. He loved publicity. Whenever he had a bail jumper that he was bringing in there always seemed to be a camera on the event. The showoff thrived on it. How did I know so much about him? I had been one of those bail jumpers the mofo bagged a few years back. I hoped the mother wouldn't recognize me, and he might not have if I hadn't opened my mouth. He not only nailed the Midwest accent right away, but noticed the name on my army shirt. In my rattled state I’d forgotten to take it off back at the house. I was done. No way around it.

I know you from somewhere?

There he was, acting like he didn’t.

It's quite possible, sir.

He was one of those middle-age a-holes who got rowdy when drunk; big and loud, a real ass-kicking type I never liked being around, and he had a bushy, walrus type stash that lots of folks, myself included, were inclined to find repulsive.

I asked where his videographers were. He was known for having his own personal camera team with him when he went out on hunts. Like the time he bagged me in Santa Fe and hauled me back to where I’d jumped bail: there was a married couple with him, filming. So I wondered about that.

Publicity generates income, jobs. My videographers got kids. Didn't want to leave the Midwest. Like me, hate LA. Only reason I'm in this sewer is because my wife's got this bug up her ass: wants to be in the movies. Been here before, on business; was also a tech advisor on a couple of cable shows. It's a cesspool. Hollywood is full of Commie scum. Can't stomach 'em. But it comes down to making my young wife happy. Now, my other wife, the ex I had two kids by ain't too pleased about that, having the kids two thousand miles away. Tried to tell her it's only temporary. This thing with Marge wanting to make it in the movies is pure bullshit and won't last.

He wanted to know what made me trade my home town for LA LA. I couldn't tell him I needed to get the hell away from the likes of him and rollers with a chip on their shoulder and a hard-on for me and maybe try for a new start on the west coast.

Couldn't take those winters anymore. And job prospects. Union studio drivers make good money.

You figure you might do that here in LA?

I just got through telling him that I did.

He shook his head. Now, this might sound cynical, but them union jobs are locked up. Gotta know peeps. Outsiders rarely, if ever, get in. Just the way it is. Hate to break it to you this way. Same goes for ingenues. Tried to tell my young wife: Only way good looking young hotties like her get in is by gettin' down on their knees and blowing tubesteak. How Marilyn Monroe did it; how so many of 'em got their first break: Suckin' dick. Siphoning nutsack chowder. Now, if some son of a bitch tries that shit with her all she's gotta do is let me know, and I'll deal with the motherfucker personally. I told her that. Sure did, Alf. Come to Daddy, and Daddy will take care of it. He paused to think about something for a minute. "Been here less than a month this time and bad shit's already begun happening to further feed ‘bad vibes’ about ‘this diseased whore of a town’. Had nothing but bad vibes about this snake pit all along. And so far I've been more than spot-on. And another double went down his gullet. Now, my young wife Marjorie, I call her Marge, she don't feel that way at all. She likes it."

She likes LA?

He nodded. Believe it or not, Freddie Reed. My young wife just loves LA. She loves it here. Loves the rotting palm trees, mansions crawling with rats, polluted beaches, flash floods and quakes, the flakes. Mostly the flakes. He ordered another double. Turned to face me again. "My wife is going to be a 'movie star,' Freddie Reed. That's why we're in this fuckin’ toilet. That's the only reason we're here."

The double arrived. Frank only sipped at it this time. I'll tell you something else, Freddie Reed, just between you and me, she don't give a damn about the kids. And I know that for a fact. Between you and me.

I didn't say anything because I knew I had no right to.

She don't care. Why should she? They're not hers. Why should she give a damn? She wants to act, be a star; she don't care about nothing else. Goddamn fame-struck opportunist.

Next thing I knew, it was the photo. Out, it came. From his wallet. Laminated. A raven-haired, mixed-race looker with a clear complexion; full lipstick red mouth and large sultry eyes that you were immediately drawn to. No doubt he feared he might lose her in this town known for its glitz and glamor, known also for how quickly it devoured and spit out wannabe starlets like this woman he was married to.

"Is she a beauty? Or is she a beauty? One third Swiss or maybe Italian, one third Rican, and the last third negro. Lookit that natural tan. Bronze skin made my mouth water first time I laid eyes on her; still does. She a good looking negro wench, or what?"

She's a beauty, Mr. Graham.

The photo went back in the wallet and the wallet was jammed back in the hip pocket.

"I don't know if she can act or not. Hell, she could make it on looks alone. Good lookin’ mixed-race number like her. More and more lately, studios see there’s real money to be made by making roles available to ethnic types. Explains why we’re seein’ so many all over the tube. Can’t get away from it. Most of ‘em got no talent to speak of. Colored and wetbacks. Ruinin’ the country. Fuckin’ Mexicans. Illegals. Criminal pukes. But they’re in. Marketplace makes it possible. Networks and studios never miss an opportunity to make a buck. And Marge, with that body and face, has better than an equal shot. What I'm afraid of. Then, of course, we’ll stay put for good, or at least until her career gets under way, and then we move back. Gonna be hard, though. Dealing with all this Holly-weird scum; Lefty slime bags. Can't stomach the bullshit. Every asshole you meet is a producer. Only thing most of them can produce is a business card. It's a con. Pissants rent a small office on some half-ass movie lot, put a sign on their door: Blow-Me Productions. They're a producer now. Horseshit. Pay some artist a few bucks to sketch up a movie poster, run ads for ingenues in movie publications to make it look legit on the surface, but they still ain't produced a fuckin' thing. Business cards. That's all most of them ever produced. Buncha pimps and whores. Fruits and nuts. Phony cocksuckers."

I didn't know, didn't care. All I wanted was a regular job that paid real money, maybe buy a decent pre-owned car. Do my best to put my past behind me.

Chapter 6

It was getting to be 8 o'clock and we were both pretty soused. I knew Monica would be worried, and that I should have called to let her know, but didn't. Drunk, laughing, shouting and cursing, that kid was still on my mind. I would be late getting in to my job. If I got in.

Frank Graham asked what I did for a living these days, while waiting for the driving job.

I deliver pizza.

That's nothing to be ashamed of. Takes a good while for a man to get his bearings.

I'm closing in on 28. It's no gig.

You'll do all right. It takes time to figure things out, what you want to do with your life.

He made a suggestion. Maybe he could work it out so that I might go along with him on some of the hunts, soon as he got situated. Tape his exploits. Maybe one day he'd be able to sell the lot to a cable network. There were nibbles. Nothing worth his while. Yet. What the hell? Could be a few dollars in it for both of us. Besides, it promoted work. Bail bondsmen saw him on tv and got in touch. Just like back home. He'd been out this way a few times in the past and knew enough people in local law enforcement.

Appreciate the offer, but you wouldn't need somebody like me.

Sure, I would. You know the city better than I do. I could go out and hire one of these Pinko movie people, or some wannabe actor former cop—but I wouldn't like to. They make me puke, most of ‘em around here. Besides, you're from the Midwest and a war vet to boot. You deserve a break.

Even after close to two years of kicking around in LA I still hardly knew Southern California. Place was way too big and spread out. I was familiar with Hollywood and the San Fernando Valley well enough, I supposed.

I guess we can try it.

There's money in it, Freddie Reed. I guarantee it. It's dangerous work, can be, but it pays well when it pays.

He pulled up his shirt to reveal several old bullet scars, dagger scars, surgery scars. He was proud he'd lived through it all.

"Why do you think I do it? It ain't just the thrill of the hunt that keeps this old dawg getting up every morning."

I didn't know what to think. It was past 10 o’clock by now and he had trouble sitting up. The barkeep kept hinting I take my ‘friend’ outside. I tried. Frank Graham wouldn't hear of it until I gave him my home phone. He insisted he wanted me to work with him.

A guy like me couldn't afford to be rude to a guy like this. Besides, guys like this had connections, and it wouldn't have been tough for him to track my number down. It made it easier all around just to let him have it.

Not many young people your age who got their head on right.

I thought maybe he was putting me on, only he'd meant it.

We all make mistakes, so long as we learn from 'em. Looks like you learned from yours. It's in the past.

I hoped so. Then thought: If I had my head on right, what the hell was I doing being a pizzeria delivery flunky at my age? I was no kid, that was for sure. Thirty was but two years away.

Well, I had a record. For this and that. It was enough for most employers to hold it against you. Not all. Most. Who could blame them? Only I had to get money in my pocket. I had to get something going. I was desperate for it. Without money you might as well be dead; without money you ended up sleeping in the park like all those homeless people living out of cars and spending their days on park benches.

I had this fear of it happening to me, and in fact, I had been sleeping in my Buick, before it gave out completely, when I met Monica and then moved in with her. So Monica had been a real lifesaver in more ways than one. The other thing was: I wanted to stay out of stir. I'd had enough of that scene. And was determined. No matter what it took. All I had to do was walk that straight and narrow. Pizza delivery was one way, while waiting for the break.

Finally, I got Frank Graham to stand up, and managed to help him walk outside in search of his van. He kept pointing out the van had signs on the sides and back that said Throwback’s Ready Rooter, or some such, and to look for pipes on the overhead rack.

I spotted the van. It was an ordeal getting him to it. Frank Graham was no little guy. Built like Duke Wayne and just about as tall. He had a good 60 pounds on me. I'm 6ft, tops, and weigh 170. It was an ordeal.

I got him inside the back of the van. He was unconscious, but kept mumbling. I catch him, I'll kill him with my bare hands. . . .

Chapter 7

I drove the late model van to the address he'd given me earlier. It made me edgy and nervous because the house was directly across the street from the park. I kept hearing the kid's voice over and over in my head. Having consumed beer after beer hadn't helped wash it away.

I parked in front of the house, slumped against the steering wheel, wondering where the boy was and the hell his parents must be going through. They had no way of knowing that the dog was disease-free. I hoped they wouldn't force the kid to undergo the rabies shots and waited a while to see that he was going to be all right. Tetanus? Yes. You knew they had to do that, but the other? A week's worth of rabies shots? It bothered me.

The light came on in the house and I sat up and slowly turned in its direction. It was typical Southern Cal. Spanish style. Maybe two bedrooms. Nothing fancy. It looked gray in the evening light. There was a lawn in front that hadn't been tended to in weeks, and a picket fence just as neglected.

The front door opened and a female stood on the other side of the screen. Frank? Is that you, Frank?

It took me a moment to snap out of my stupor.

Yes, it is. I mean, it's your husband, Frank.

I staggered out of the van and made it to the back door and leaned against it and didn't move. I just stood there. My skull was tight, pounding. Getting drunk never agreed with me.

I threw my head forward and it came up, all of it. I heaved and I coughed and when I was through I fell back and staggered against the tire. My eyes closed, and I wanted to sleep.

Her voice shook me awake. It was pleasant-sounding, angelic. She had a handkerchief in her hand and was wiping my mouth. I looked up and could see that the back doors to the van were open. It was a kind of blurred image. That was all I could get for a couple of minutes, the doors and this female figure in a night robe looking inside the van and looking down at me.

Jesus Christ, Frank.

She shook her head in disgust. I mumbled an apology and explained that I usually didn't get like this. I didn't hear the lady say anything. When my vision cleared, I saw her wiping tears with a Kleenex. She was in her early or mid-20s, dark hair that was long and wavy. From what I could see in the night, her eyes had a mesmerizing indigo tint to